Yeah, snorkeling is cool. When we first moved here, it was great to take a break from our 8-hour fishing days and take a dip in 85 degree water on a hot summer's day. Float and look, paddle and look. I'd stay in forever but some people get spooked by sharks so we get out and leave. Spookiness is catchy.
Now we've discovered spearfishing and there's a purpose to snorkeling. So much better! Actually, boyfriend is the one with the spear, I'm just a looker, a spotter. The catch gene is fully activated same as when he fishes, so now we get to snorkel -ahem, spearfish, for hours and hours. A match made in heaven!
With the new sense of urgency in finding the right fish to shoot, comes a need to see better and learn new skills. Snorkeling for me has been a purely horizontal affair: I float and look, paddle and look (see above). Spearfishing, and even my dinky job of spotting fish, requires a third dimension. I have to think in 3-D now. I have to get to the fish, because after all I want to someday get promoted from spotter to shooter (it would be a self-promotion). I have to dive down, go straight down to the bottom. I have to get down to those silly fish, looking up at me. I still let them know that I see you down there. And I'm coming to get you.
Let me just say right now that I get mad when I can't do something I really yearn to be able to do. I want to dive down to the ocean floor like a mermaid, like a water nymph, like a ... a... fish? I want to enter the third dimension and stop acting like a tourist on a party snorkel boat. Why so hard? one word: breathing and pressure. My first day trying to dive, and I am out of breath by the time I hit bottom and need to jet upwards to the surface to frantically breathe like a dumb tourist. What's up? I run five miles at a clip, I do yoga.
I am mad.
Was I born with miniature lungs? I see the fish down there, Parrot Fish, laughing at me. I see you down there. I want to get to you so bad. I want to do it, so I practice over and over, dozens of dives. I blow the air out on the way down, kick my fins, and ...zzzzzzzzzzzzzrrrrrrrrrrrttttt.
Did you say blow the air out on the way down? ...my boyfriend asks me later that night at home as I tell my story. Immediately I realize that's wrong. I can just tell by his face when he says this. Why am I doing that? What strange habit have I picked up in my past, where diving down means to expel all my precious air right at the start? It's like starting a hike on empty, no breakfast, no snacks, no energy. It's sabotaging yourself.
Next time out, I'll get down there and I'll swim like a mermaid, just wait and see.
